


Purple Daisies and Pomegranate Hands

by rydenrain



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:34:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rydenrain/pseuds/rydenrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have written word after word, line after line, and stanza after stanza, but they will never be enough, for he is beyond every metaphor I've ever been prescribed and he is far more beautiful than my pen may ever encapsulate. I have been torn apart and remade again.</p><p>1800's ryden AU in which ryan and brendon are struggling poets who inevitably find their demise and their muse in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is entirely inspired by the following post: http://nothingrhymeswithcircus.tumblr.com/post/140651708624/1800s-ryden-au-where-ryan-and-brendon-are-gay  
> thank you so much for the idea and for allowing me to do something with it!!!

It feels as though his body were still pressed to mine, skin against skin, colliding endlessly in a whirlwind of subtleties and dividends. I can still feel his breath, like cool wind upon the back of my neck, melting every inch of me and remaking me whole again. I remember his hands. And how they felt in mine; always warm and made of fire, like his soul and like his mind; like his words and their lack of rhyme. He was pure devotion and exultation and passion in a single breath. His words spilled like stars upon an unfamiliar tongue and I wish I could taste them once more. Always once more.

I rise from my seat at the great oak table and find myself wondering where I'm going. There's not much more to do and I have very little left to say. My thoughts seem to drift from me these days and I have no means of retrieving them either. I can see them puzzled in front of my gaze and whisping like clouds of smoke but they fade just like the end of my cigar. It is so hard to care when your heart has been taken from you.

In the beginning, I tried not to think about it. About him. But his smile was unforgettable and his skin was made of cigarettes and I would do anything to breathe him in once more.

I suppose I've always been prone to addiction—for words and for thought and for the whiskey that makes my throat burn—but my need for him is insatiable. My whole body aches when we are parted and I am torn apart at the seams of my already collapsing vessel. I had once considered my pen my only love, but for him I would never write again. If only he had asked sooner, things might have been different.

I try not to think about that.

I stand alone in the middle of my kitchen—though it's never really been much of a kitchen. There's a table and two chairs and a kettle for tea hanging above a dying fire. The pot is lying turned over on the floor, 3-day-old stew crusting its insides. I haven't bothered to eat and I definitely haven't bothered to clean and I know Brendon would be scolding me right now if he saw.

I think about smiling, but it would be a lie, and no decision needs to be made after that.

All I can do is drown myself in alcohol and hope the weights in my pockets eventually do the same.


	2. Street Lamps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm not very polished on all things 1800's, so if you see anything historically inaccurate when reading this, please let me know so I can fix it asap!! thanks!

I have wished time and time again for bluer skies, but even I know that I was made for darkness.  I often ask myself who I would be if I was happy, but the thought almost terrifies me. My words are for my emotions, and I have never felt happiness strong enough to ode. Some days I wonder, but I don't wonder for long. I am the way I am for a reason, and my words are the sole purpose of my being. 

As I walk the winding path toward the local brewery, I watch the world around me. There are children I see in passing who run callously without shoes and leap bounds over sadness. I know that they are happy and I wish them happiness for as long as they can bear it. Their mothers chase after them in anguish, yelling "John" and "William" and "Henry" and I almost feel myself laughing. 

I'm not a miserable man; I know happiness, but I just find no purpose in writing for it when the world is filled with so much more. I can look at the trees and feel joy and admire a cool breeze in May, but when the night blankets our small world, I have only the moon to ground me—for I do rarely see the Sun. 

It's that time of year where we are melting into Summer and anticipation lies on the face of every young boy and girl, though their mothers have yet to let them act upon it. The world is still damp and we all still wear our winter coats, but at least hope clings to the color of each sprouting leaf upon each spruce tree. Sometimes I like to breathe it in—most of the time I don't. I've tried not to be a pessimist, but hope is so fickle, and I refuse to believe in her.  

I remember when I was nine and Spencer and I would run to the creek at dawn. I did it to get away from Dad and his beer bottle, Spencer only came because I did. We would run with our chests puffed and our front teeth missing, bare feet pounding along muddy trails and sticking haphazardly to crushed leaf and twig. We would laugh because we could barely see, and sometimes his hand would squeeze mine eagerly, but once we passed the brush of trees and we found ourselves sitting along the small forest bank by the stream, we didn't say much. Or, at least I didn't. I loved watching the Sun rise and I loved the way it felt upon my skin; miles away, casting rays upon my scars and freckles to reflect a divinity perplexed to my being and coupled with my affinities. I was warm then. I was happy (I think). 

Now I can see the Sun clear as day in the sky, but I don't think I've felt her in years. 

I think I think too much. 

I take a left on Perry and a right on Alpine and I can finally see the pub in my view. It's funny, I told myself I would never drink a drop of alcohol in my life in fear of becoming my father, but now I have a cupboard dedicated to it in my house and it's always mysteriously running low.  

I shrug. How was I supposed to know? 

I can't decide if it's the children who know nothing or us. 

I pull off my gloves and reach for the door, but it comes swinging towards me before I have time to do so. I nearly fall backwards as a man rushes past me and I fight the urge to turn around and punch him. He's talking to himself, and by his body language, it's obvious to me that he's upset about something; he's angry. I didn't get a chance to see his face, but under the glow of dusk, I have a vague idea. I want to walk towards him, but I can't tell if it's because I want to punch him or ask him what's wrong. The latter thought is a new one for me. I almost do, but upon examining him once more, I turn around and walk the other way instead. A beer is much more needed now. 

I turn to glance at the man once more as I step into the brewery and walk towards the counter. Jon smiles instantly when he sees me. 

"Nice to see you, Ryan," he greets me warmly. 

I smile kindly in response. "Hey, Jon." I slip out of my jacket and set it on the space beside me before sitting down on the bar stool. "I'll have a beer." 

"Only a beer?" He laughs. 

I shrug. "For now." 

He nods and smirks. "How's your writing going?" 

I know he can see the way I tense when I don't look up and accept the beer a little too eagerly. "It's alright." I say, uninterested. I'm avoiding his eyes and he knows it, but thankfully all he does is hum in response and begin to wipe down the counter. I'm eternally grateful towards him for knowing when to end a conversation. Despite my love for words, I've never really been much of a conversationalist. 

Maybe it's because I don't really love what I do. In reality, it drives me insane. I wish I built houses for a living or worked in a parlor shining shoes, but no, instead I am plagued by thought. I write to survive, and sometimes not always figuratively. I breathe my poetry and I have since I was young, but some days I wish I could give it up.  

That's why I tense whenever anyone asks me about my work. I write and I write and I bleed on my pen, but it's never good enough and I'm afraid I'll never know why. 

I take a sip of my beer and sigh, looking around the dusty tavern in both boredom and curiosity. It's a small crowd tonight. There's a table of three men with soot on their hands talking amongst themselves quietly, while one older male sits alone at the table behind them staring into nothing. For a moment, I ask myself what he's thinking about, but I can't be bothered to care in earnest. I used to feel the world around me too closely, but apathy has taken ahold of me somewhere along the line and I wonder where my urgency has actually gone. What happened to me? 

"Can I fill her up again, Ryan?" Jon asks. 

I blink. Suddenly all my beer is gone and it's ten past 11:00. Apparently the last thought clung to me too harshly. I'm unsurprised; this happens too often. 

I shake my head and turn to get up, slipping into my jacket and reaching inside my coat pocket to place a quarter on the counter. "Thanks, Jon, I'll see you tomorrow, I'm sure." 

He laughs. "Not too soon, I hope." 

I shrug and turn to walk out the door, but on my way out, I stop in the entryway and see a jacket laying haphazardly on an abandoned table. I'm the last of the evening, and seeing as how all the others have left, it appears to have no owner. I pick it up and dust it off and check for a name sewn into it's inseam. When I find nothing, I shout into the tavern, "Jon! Do you know whom this belongs to?" 

He cocks his head but shrugs, continuing to wipe down the counters casually. "There was a guy in here earlier. He was writing something for about an hour—but really he was just thinking of stuff to write, I'd say—and then he just up and stormed off." He shrugs again. "Must've left his jacket behind." 

"Oh," I say quietly, rubbing the back of my neck and remembering the man who had run into me hours before. "What do you want me to do with it?" I ask.  

"Well, there's not much use for it here." He doesn't look up. 

I nod as I feel the thick jacket resting heavy in my palms, thumbing the material slowly as I stare into it's brown coarse leather. I know I should set it down somewhere, leave it to be Jon's problem instead of my own, but somehow, I enjoy its burden in my fist, and I can't seem to let it go. It's old, I can see that much, and to some, probably pitiful, but when I bring it up to my face, the scent lingers longer than it should, and I'm reminded of something I can't remember. It's rough and it's worn down and it's probably better forgotten behind an alley, but, there's always a but, and this jacket is its own. 

I keep it balled in my fist as I step out the door. It's not unbearably cold, I'll admit, but there is a slight chill in the air that makes it just enough parts uncomfortable. Jon's place isn't too far from my home, thankfully, but this time of night is always slightly off-putting, no matter how many times I'm stuck wandering in it. The street lamps glow eerily on every block corner, and I think that's what I despise the most. Their light only stretches a quarter distance, so the space elapsed in between those two posts is enough to make anyone anxious. Any man who has ever called himself a lover of night only does it from the safety of his home. 

I'm walking down Jefferson, holding the jacket tightly in my grip, when I see him. He's sitting on a park bench and he's staring into the sky, and for a second I think he's asleep, but as I near, I hear him whistling, and my first thought is immediately proven wrong. I slow my pace even though I know I should speed up, but I'm intrigued, and I guess that doesn't happen often enough. The bench is only a block from my house, so I figure I should be fine, anyway. 

I stop in front of him, but I don’t say anything; I know he's heard my footsteps. His head is still tilted towards the sky as his arms are splayed wide on either side, and I can see that his eyes are still open. The whistling halts slowly.  

"Have you ever actually looked at the stars?" His voice shocks me. 

"Excuse me?" I'm taken aback by his question.  

He lifts his arm towards the sky, motioning at the blackness above with a loose wrist. "The stars! The stars! Have you ever actually looked at the stars?" He keeps his hand above his head before returning it to his side slowly. 

I chuckle. "Hasn't everyone seen the stars?"  

Finally, he lifts his head. "It's more than just seeing." 

And he's right. Because when I look at him, there's much more than what I'm given. I can barely see him under the warm glow of the buzzing light, but it's enough. His hair is short, brown, messy, and by no means sufficiently styled, but it suits him somehow—as does his nose, which hangs slightly as it rises from his face; his eyelashes, long and dark, carefully craft sullen shadows onto the rise of his jutting cheekbones, which fold carelessly into his defined jawline. I would've said he was a handsome man even without seeing his eyes, but as they stare into mine inquiringly, their twinkle is undeniable and their brown warmth is unidentifiable, and his beauty could only be matched by that of the Sun—or perhaps the stars he so desperately asked me to admire. He's nice to look at, I must admit, but I really wish I hadn’t seen his lips; they're too pink and too plump and I don't know why I'm suddenly at a loss for breath. 

I clear my throat. "Maybe you should explain." 

He smiles shallowly. "Maybe you should sit." 

I pause for a moment, but I take a step closer and sit beside him, anyway, even in my anguish and hesitance. He tilts his head back towards the sky and sets his arm there between us, motioning with his other upward. "Look." 

I copy his actions as I sigh, looking up and trying to ignore our close proximity. "I thought this was what I _wasn't_ supposed to be doing," I chuckle nervously. 

His laugh sounds more like a hum. "No," he corrects, "I told you there was _more_. There's always more than meets the eye." 

I shift slightly. "Then show me this 'more'." 

My eyes are still trained towards the sky, but I can see his head turn to look at me as he chuckles softly. I hold my breath. "There's nothing I really _can_ show you. I can’t make you see the same way I see—just like you can’t do the same for me—but all it requires is a little thought, and a little nothing, to properly _see_." He's still watching me. "Just dig." 

I'm not sure why, but I do as he says; I dig. Now when I look at the sky, I see the stars, and I'm reminded of the world around me. Looking up, I feel small, and I almost raise my arm as he did only moments before. I know I can't touch, but I'm compelled to feel. They're so far, and entirely out of reach, and I forget why I'm here. I can't tell if any of this is real. I can't tell if the body beside mine is real. I can't tell if my own vessel is real. There are worlds hidden in my bones that I can't even begin to fathom, and looking at the stars makes it all feel too  real. 

I sit up. He rises, too.  

"I think it's getting late," I whisper. 

He smiles. "It was late when you showed up." 

I stand and pinch the leather of the jacket between my fingers. I’m staring down at the material in my hands. "Thank you." 

He doesn't say anything, but his eyes are focused on the brown coat, as well. "That's my jacket," he states, surprised. 

"What?" I lift it up. 

"You found my jacket," he laughs, raising his head to meet my gaze. "I left it behind in some bar." 

I hesitate. "Oh. Oh, yeah. Um." I rub my neck. "I found it." I extend my arm and offer it to him. "You, uh, ran into me as you stormed out earlier, and as I was leaving, I saw it sitting on the table, and Jon just said I should take it, so I did." 

He nods and pinches the material between his thumb and forefinger. "You should keep it." 

"Why?" I ask, confused. 

He shrugs. "Why not? You found it, didn't you?" 

I stare at him with wide eyes. "But it's _your_ jacket." 

"Not anymore," he laughs. He stands beside me and extends his right hand for me to shake. "My name's Brendon." 

I grip his hand in my own, and I'm pleasantly surprised at its warmth. Mine are always too cold. "Ryan." I shake. 

He doesn't smile, but we're both staring, and neither one of us has moved to let go. Finally, I drop my hand at my side, but instantly regret it when the cold hits my skin. Brendon doesn't say another word as he turns to go, but I watch him begin to wander in the opposite direction. I feel like I should be saying goodnight, but technically, it's already morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely thought this chapter was going to be longer so I'm sorry for its short length


	3. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four months later.......sorry it's been so long!! writer's block has been unbearable. I believe in this story so much, but I'm terrified of how much potential it has for failure. but I can't deny, it feels good to be back.

I awake in a blur, cacophonous thoughts already corrupting my being as I turn away from the wall to face my empty room. It's become a routine of mine: to stare at the nothingness that surrounds me. When I first moved in here, Spencer suggested that I make this house my own; that I make it a home--but I guess I didn't really find it worth my while. I never bothered to hang pictures on the walls, or stack trinkets on the shelves, or change the brown to something brighter. And now that I think about it, I haven't seen Spencer in years. I prefer to call myself a minimalist, but maybe I'm just lonely. I try not to think about that.

I shake my head, blink twice, and rise from the bed. I never bothered to change out of my clothes from the night before, so my pants feel almost suffocating as the belt keeps them buckled to my waist. My shirt is no longer tucked, though, which provides some small comfort. I begin to unbutton it as I swing my feet over the edge of the bed, ignoring the shiver that runs through me when my bare feet meet the cold floor. I slip out of my shirt, unbuckle my belt, and let my pants hang loosely against my skinny frame. I am by no means a small man, my height reaching past that of what is generally considered average, but I cannot deny that I'm irreparably skinny. My limbs are long and gangly, bony, but not weak. I can take a punch and I can give one, too, but that doesn't change who I am. No matter what I wear, I will always shudder in my clothes, because somehow, I know they will never fit right. 

I run a hand through my hair as I travel my house and open my only _truly_ occupied cabinet. I stare at its contents and wonder if rum is actually the solution to my aching tiredness. I could barely manage to sleep last night. I'd blink, close my eyes for too long, and the blackness behind my eyelids was suddenly transformed into a sky full of stars, and I'd feel all parts incomplete and complete as brown eyes wandered mine curiously, and I was left gasping for a breath I'd never inhale. Then I'd open my eyes, my heart would race, and I'd recite words in an unfamiliar order as they stretched across my paper and bled from pen.

I pause, turning away from the cabinet and looking out into the kitchen. There are papers scattered across the dining room table, and I rush to them quickly. I'd completely forgotten about the poetry I'd written last night in my insomniatic stupor. 

I sit down in the chair and collect them carefully, skimming the lines slowly. Usually, it doesn't take me long to identify my work as flawed and riddled with imperfections, but as my eyes read my words with care, I find that I'm somewhat enamored. My symbolism, my imagery, is beautiful, light, and uncharacteristically hopeful. I've written of far off galaxies and calculated time frames, and if it were not for the curved handwriting that I've come to perfect, I would not have believed that these words were mine in the first place. I pick up a poem titled _Ricochet_ and walk into my room, placing it on my night stand gently, where it sits as I stare at it in awe from my bed. It's my favorite piece yet. I'm not sure when it will meet the public eye, and part of me dreads that very moment, but I'm feeling that it's too deserving to not be acknowledged.

It has felt like years that I have lived in writer's block. Don't get me wrong, I can write for hours, create endless poems in only a sitting, but when I wake in the morning, it is all nothing. I've never thrown away a poem, but the stack of failure in the back of my closet is still enough to make me cringe. But, I suppose it all may just be worth it for the piece I am admiring right now.

"I deserve a celebratory drink," I announce to my empty home, ignoring the loneliness echoing in my ears. I'll take any excuse I can to drink, even it's an obviously blatant lie.

I shift the crumpled papers in my closet to the side and grab the nearest shirt I can find, pulling it up and over my head as I re-tighten my belt buckle. I walk back into the kitchen, though with a renewed sense of pride, grabbing my father's old bottle of whisky that I haven't touched in years, opening the lid and barely letting a drop fall into my glass before closing it again and setting it carefully back on the shelf. I reach for my usual rum instead. Somehow it would feel like defeat to drink the whisky my father left to me--especially in celebration--when I'd sworn to never drink it again. I despise it because I despise him. And yet, it has sat in my cupboard for three long years now, completely untouched. I know symbolism too well to know that it stands for something--something I won't soon admit.

I take the rum bottle back to my seat, ignoring my empty glass on the counter, and take a large swig from the dusty container. It burns as it goes down and I find it oddly fitting. However, after nearly drinking my father's age old whiskey (and nearly breaking my word's integrity), a classic morning drink of rum feels awfully anticlimactic.  So, I button the pants I wore to bed, and I slip on my muddy shoes, and I tuck in my shirt as I grab my jacket and pull it tight around me. A failure has made success this day, and he deserves a proper meal.

I pat my pockets down for money as I step out into the sun. There is a light in every crevice this morning and surely it feels like Spring. As I deeply breathe in the cooling air, I set out on foot towards my destination, taking a left toward Monroe instead of my usual right towards Jefferson.

I think I have always loved to walk more than the average man because I have always loved to think more than the average man. Carefully, I will pick my way along winding paths, while carelessly, I will think. There is so much to see in this world that I know I will never feel shame for admiring it as I do. I pity the man who crushes branches beneath his foot without second thought to what he's done, and even more so, for the girl who plucks daisies in a field of flowers and tucks them behind her ear to rot. Once, when we were adolescents, Spencer told me in excitement about how he had gifted a girl, whom he liked very much, with a rather large sunflower he had stolen from Mrs. Potterson's yard. Apparently, the girl had adored his gift; she thought it was "romantic"--but I just remember laughing in his face. I told him it didn't make sense to destroy one thing in vain hopes of trying to create another. He stared at me, incredulous, and said, "You think you're so intellectually superior, Ryan. But you're not." I didn't know what to say then--and I still don't know what to say now. I tell myself not to dwell on his words because if I admit he's right, then I wont have anything to prevent myself from realizing that the thing I call "pity" is actually only masked envy.

There is no immediate chill in the air, but I continue to wrap my jacket around me tighter, anyway. Old thoughts have a way of making me feel cold.

Though, gratefully, my feet have taken me where they need to go: _Charles' Restaurant & Pub_. I open the door slowly, sneaking past a couple beginning to exit, and move towards an open booth in the far left corner of the bustling hub. A waitress sees me quickly and shuffles over with a smile.

"How can I help you today, sir?" Immediately I see that she's young, early 20's, give or take. She's got a petite body, long blonde hair with bangs cut directly across her forehead, deep brown eyes, and a welcoming smile. She's undeniably pretty, yet still working, and therefore, unmarried. I catch a glimpse at her name tag and see that her name is simply 'Z'. I decide that I like her.

I clear my throat and smile at her softly. "Water will be fine--for now," I add hastily, remembering the burn in my throat from this morning's drink. "And I think I'd like to look at the menu a little bit longer before I decide on a meal."

She grins warmly at me once more. "Of course. Take your time," she says, passing my table to wait on the next.

Once she's gone, I read over their menu slowly, even though I already know what I'll most likely end up getting. I haven't actually had a proper meal in years now because, truthfully, nothing has felt truly appetizing to me in ages. I've tried in the past to develop a desire to eat, but even the thought at times has left me feeling sick. I eat what I can muster usually, just enough to keep me going. But, today is different; I have made today different. Of course, it is obvious to no one--as I am sitting here by myself in quiet solitude, pressed against the glass of this restaurant's foggy window--that I am, indeed, celebrating. It is why I am so closely skimming this menu for a dish I find fitting to fit my mood; it is why I _will_   _not_ order scrambled eggs with a slice of un-buttered toast and a pint of beer; it is why I have decided to choose a stack of two small pancakes with a side of sausage links and a fried egg, and why I have also decided to swap the usual burning of rum to the somewhat less familiar bitterness of coffee. When Z returns, I tell her my order, and when Z leaves, I smile in content.

It is so rare that I feel anything resembling happiness these days that I can't help but wonder where it came from. It is my poem, of course, that has brought me this joy, but where did _it_  come from? I have never written with such unmarked passion before in the past. Even stranger, I can barely remember writing at all last night. It's odd, I only recall drinking a pint of beer in the evening at Jon's, yet when I stumbled home in the darkness near-midnight, my brain felt fully intoxicated. My stomach lurches anxiously, for suddenly I remember, and I am surrounded by images of a man on a park bench, with eyes burning gold against the light of the shining moon as he balances the sky on his fingertips and collects stars in the center of his open palms. I remember him now (I never forgot), and I remember that it was of him I envisioned my one true masterpiece, and for some unknown reason, I am terrified.

Luckily, at that moment, the waitress returns with my cup of coffee, and I accept it from her graciously just to have something to hold in my hands. I take a sip from it slowly, careful not to let it burn my tongue, and set it cautiously back onto the table. I can't help but fidget suddenly. Lightly, with the nails of my thumbs I scratch the edge of the table, side to side. I feel worried, though I don't know why. It is not unusual for me to be hesitant in social situations, nor to shy away from large crowds, but the heat burning in the pit of my stomach feels completely foreign to me, and I think that only terrifies me further. I tell myself to shy away from these reproachful emotions, acknowledging them as odd and denying of all reasoning, but only do they finally ease when I find a newspaper stand across the dining hall, giving me a new point of focus to target my thoughts. I rise from my booth and travel towards the stand, passing along a nickel to the man who sits there before receiving a freshly printed copy and returning to my seat. However, this time I see that there is a man sitting in the booth behind me. 

His back is turned to me, so I only see the upturned collar of his coat and the brown outline of hair covering the back of his head. For a brief moment, I wonder if he had been there all along. I ponder the thought for only a second, shrug, and then slide back into my place. The newspaper crinkles as I open it and skim the daily headline. Not much has ever happened in this small town, so I can't say that I'm surprised when my vision begins to blur as my eyes quickly grow unfocused and bored. Truth be told, I've never much been a man who enjoys newspapers. I hold them in my hand to avoid feeling idle, though I doubt the words will ever hold much meaning. I'm just here to pass the time.

"You appear awfully bored."

I pause. The voice came from behind me. I could've sworn there was only a single man sitting at the booth he's now occupying, yet the statement was clearly cited in conversation.

"Would you like to know something?"

I look around. It is only the two of us in this corner of the restaurant.

"I'm quite bored, as well."

Suddenly, it dawns on me that I have heard this voice before. On a park bench, beside a street lamp, beneath a sky full of stars. I let out a shaky breath. It feels as if I have been exhausted of air, for my lungs are slowly contracting, and my heart has quickened in pace, and that same unfamiliar heat in my stomach has risen to its final extent.

I swallow. "I do wonder, you must be some kind of magician to be able to spot a bored man so clearly with your back turned upon him."

I hear him chuckle softly, though it is only but a single breath. "It does not take magic for one bored man to spot another." He pauses. "If I had a nickel to spare, I'd be staring blankly at a newspaper, too."

I feel the heat rising in my cheeks, though I bury it behind a smile. I fold my newspaper casually and set it back down on the table, clearing my throat. "Excuse me, but if a man is so bored, why does he come to a place such as this?"

He responds quickly, "I suppose I could be asking you the same thing, Ryan." My stomach lurches when he says my name. "But I won't, because the answer is quite simple." 

He pauses for a moment, and I panic, wondering if I'm supposed to say something else. Thankfully, he continues. "A bored man comes to a place such as this for the same reason a normal man does: to eat."

I'm about to laugh and protest that his answer is too forward, but he soon interrupts me, pushing on more forcefully. "However," he clears his throat, "that is not the only reason. I suppose a bored man comes here--and by 'here', I mean all places such as these--because he was bored before he arrived. A bored man does not wish to be bored, which is why he came in the first place: to find something interesting to alleviate his numbness. So, the bored man goes to all he can. He sits in restaurant after restaurant, bar after bar, squatting on uncomfortable chairs and in dirty booths, hoping that maybe he'll become intrigued somehow. But he doesn't. The bored man is still bored and he probably will be for the rest of his life."

A long silence follows. I let his words wash over me slowly, but they're already ingrained unto me forever. It feels as if their weight sits heavily upon my chest because I know that all he's said is true. Twice now, Brendon has amazed me. Twice now, I haven't known what to say.

When I hear him shuffle behind me, I almost begin to panic, though my body stays completely still. I feel as if I've said something wrong, as if he's leaving because I'm speechless, as if I'm not interesting enough for him to stay. I stare down at the table as I hear him slide out of his seat completely, refusing to make any gestures indicating toward the sinking disappointment I so pointedly feel. It sounds as if he's about to walk away, but instead, I feel him crouch beside me.

"Yet--" His breath is warm on the back of my neck as he whispers into my ear; he's so close I can feel his lips upon my skin. "Being bored is a lot less numb when you're bored with someone else."

He brushes past me subtly, and all I can do is stare. I don't even try to suppress the cold shiver that runs along my spine. I pay no mind to the food being set out in front of me because I am still watching in awe as the ends of his coat trail around the corner, disappearing in a blink as if they were never there at all. My eyes have gone unfocused, and I know I should stop staring, but I can't. I contemplate chasing after him, but I won't. Instead, I blink twice and I look down and I pull my food to me. I take a bite and pretend that I feel nothing, but deep down I know there is no denying the fire upon my skin that is slowly swallowing me whole; there is no denying the way the hairs on the back of my neck continue to stand on end, despite Brendon's lips being long gone; there is no denying this inescapable, incessant heat burning corrosively in the pit of my stomach; there is no denying the way he has made me feel.

But I eat my breakfast anyway.

 

* * *

 

By the time I am leaving the restaurant, after having forced down an unnecessarily large meal, I find that I am tired, so very tired. And it is only nearing midday. I would like to feel awake, completely, wholly, and solely awake--but I know that that won't happen anytime soon. My mind is always restless, but my body is never appeased. 

So, as I walk down all these old streets, ignoring my aching bones and shivering in my jacket, I pretend that I am as I was when I was nine. The same, but different. The same mind, but a different body--a body to keep up with a brain. I would run as I would think: fast, immovable, unstoppable. I don't know what I was running from--little things, perhaps--with absolutely nowhere to go. Maybe I was running from myself. In all sincerity, I don't know. I just wish I still knew how to run. I think I stopped running when I started to write. But is running ink any more effective? No, probably not, but it helps when I can hardly see the sky.

I look up and squint. She is still there. I keep walking.

I walk past street names I memorized when I was young, and I turn down paths I've walked at least once before, and I begin to wonder why I decided to stay. I feel nothing but contempt for this place, and yet, I know I could never let it go. Why do we adore the things that tear us apart? Do I decide to stay because it is my muse, or do I stay because I'd feel guilty leaving? Do I stay because it's beyond all my control, because I am broke and entirely alone? Or, do I stay because I'm afraid to leave? There is an answer somewhere beneath me, but I feel that I am too...too  _something_ to admit it. Things have changed.

I nearly trip on a branch as I stumble into an open clearing. It is no new open clearing, but every time I'm embraced into its solitude, I find myself writing endless poetry about its simplicity. I have known of it for forever, and forever is such a very long time. My earliest memories of this place are when I am five, with Spencer, without Spencer, frolicking in these grassy fields of blooming metaphors characterized by their innocence and their childishness. We are free and we are happy and we are together and we are apart and we are alone and we are at peace and we're okay. Whenever I am here, it has always felt the same, which is why I'm convinced that I was born in this field--perhaps not to this body, but to some other vessel, and undoubtedly my first. Pieces of my soul are tethered to branches of trees that have already died and to seeds in the earth that have yet to exist. They exist as I exist and they breathe as I live and they seize as I cease. Maybe I am too sentimental, but I know I'm not. This is simply the place I was born. This is the reason I stay.

I sit down in what, after careful consideration, I decide is the middle. I feel exposed here, but I am so safe. I lay down with my back pressed to the earth and with my hands at either side, and I stare into the gray sky. There is nothing to see but everything. I close my eyes and my heart beats faster, because now I can see nothing at all. I feel my hands leave my sides to rise into the air, pointed upward toward the sky, toward the stars that I know aren't there. My heart beats faster. My palms are flat, on display, my hands are wide. I'm straining now to reach towards impossibility, my fingertips are grazing galaxies without constraint, without malice, nor envy. My heart beats faster. It thuds heavily within my chest, rattling my rib cage to ring endlessly in my ears like I have just strummed the most beautiful note in entirety's existence, only for it to never stop, so that it drives me insane with its inane attraction. My eyes are still closed and my heart is still beating fast and I try to ignore how heavy it suddenly feels to house a tongue in my mouth. " _Make it stop!"_ I feel like shouting. _"Because I don't want it to end,"_ I will never say.

Suddenly, my eyes are open. And I realize that the sky is still gray. I let my hands fall loosely back into their place, and I blink once, twice, three times. I don't decide to sit up because I would much rather lay here, alone, numb, bored. I am tired, so very tired. I have never understood how there are still shadows in my mind though light has not existed there for years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I wake, I do not feel surprised that I am alone and cold and that the sky has nearly succumbed to black. A man should not feel surprised for falling asleep in his own home, and for me, this is mine. I stand up and stretch, avoiding looking at the sky because the moon has begun to exhaust me as of late. Or maybe it's the stars. Either way, as I let out an inevitable yawn, I decide that it is time to return to my house. I dust off my pants and I touch my hair loosely, feeling for any random leaves or twigs. I don't care enough to actually search, though, because there is no point in vanity. I walk along the winding trail, and I push past bushes that are wet with dew, and I turn back onto the streets of reality. Jefferson street is so anticlimactic. My heart skips a bit. Except for the one night it wasn't.

Part of me expects him to be sitting there, on that same park bench, with his face glowing under the light of the moon, or the street lamp, or neither, or both (I still have yet to know), with words that captivate my essence and destroy everything I thought I knew in an all too intriguing way. When I turn the corner, I wish that he'll be there, and that he'll look at me with those same fiery eyes, lulling me with his low lids and slightly parted lips. I hope that maybe this time he'll touch my forehead, so that I may know his every thought and fill myself with its mystery, with its openness.

I'm nearly running around the corner. But I'm not surprised he's not there. It's only a glance for me to know, I barely have to raise my head to see that he's not where I wish he was. My chest feels tight. I look down at my feet and quickly continue walking. I am not surprised that he's not there, but the disappointment I feel is not something I thought to expect. I almost begin to panic, but I suppress it immediately, without thought. It's not logical to be so...intrigued by a man who I have only seen thrice before in my life. Why do I panic whenever I am near him? I look up and see the sun sinking beneath the hills.

I walk the few more blocks it takes to get to my house with my hands shoved in my pockets. I am still uneasy by my sudden ambush of emotion. I shove my key into the slot and I enter my dusty house gratefully. I kick my shoes off without much consideration to where they land, sliding out of my jacket to set haphazardly on the kitchen table. I walk into my room and fall quickly down, face first, into my bed. I sigh, but really it sounds more like an anguished groan. I am still exhausted, bone-deep, and all I want to do is sleep. But after a moment's time, I rise, sit straight up, and look around my empty room. There is nothing but white walls, dirty laundry, and piles and piles of inadequate stacks of poetry. I laugh. This is a reflection of myself.

However, when I look to my right, I see my poem still sitting there on my bedside table. I go to it hesitantly, fearing that I'll no longer think it what I thought it to be this morning. When I have reached its final line, I remember why I went out to celebrate in the first place. It is not perfection because I believe no such thing exists, but it is definitely something. Something completely and utterly and shamelessly itself. It is the closest thing to perfection that I have ever seen.

"Brendon." I whisper into the emptiness around me.

Relief suddenly washes over my body, because I have discovered the reason for my inexplicable intrigue. I wrote my one and only masterpiece as an ode to this man. He is a muse. He is something new, something exciting, and something completely un-boring. My mind yearns for an equal, so after a lifetime of living in intellectual confinement, I find my thoughts mirrored in a man like me, so unlike me. Knowledge comes so easily to me, but I would like to learn something new for once.

I smile to myself. Finally, I can put all this anxiety to rest. I was only disappointed because I feared I had lost a subject for my work. I chuckle to myself as I light the gas lamp fixture beside my bedside table. I pick up my pen and begin to write. Brendon was only a simple spark needed to ignite my already possible flame. It almost feels silly to think that I needed him.

Now I don't find it so hard to write. I am writing of all the things I thought today, and maybe even some of the things I will think tomorrow. None of them are masterpieces, but I feel content with their flow and their confidence. Mostly, it's just words on paper in no real order with no real meaning to understand. It's just writing to write, and it feels awfully liberating. Freeform. Only one piece of work is an actual poem: Timing Time. I'm not sure how to feel about it, so once it's written I don't read it again. Contentment in the moment is a lot different than contentment always.

I let a yawn escape me once more. By now it is officially night. I have probably been writing for an hour or so. My pen falls from my grip and rolls onto the desk, but I am much too lazy to pick it up. I rest my face upon the palm of my hand, and tell myself that it's okay to let my lids fall for only a moment or two. I deserve a five-minute break. When sleep comes, I welcome her.

_Thud, thud, thud._

Is that the beating of my heart, or is someone banging on my door?

_Thud, thud, thud._

I wake, startled. My lamp has gone out, so that now my room swells in darkness, only the blue, opaque light of the silver moon painting its surface. My mind still feels foggy, but I am wide awake.

_Thud, thud, thud._

It's coming from my front door. Barefoot, I walk carefully through my kitchen and towards the door. I lift the curtain slightly to peek, but all I know for certain is that there is definitely someone out there--a vague, shapeless, silhouetted someone, but still, definitely a someone. Any other day I'd have told them to go away, to fuck off, "it's midnight, go home"--but tonight, it feels different. I take a deep breath, and I close my eyes, and I inhale slowly. I open the door.

"Ryan." 

He says it so softly I can barely hear him, but I still know it's my name upon his tongue. I know because my breath catches uneasily in my throat, and my heart eagerly mimics his knocking upon my door only moments before. He looks up at me then, with dark eyes that still somehow burn red hot, made of fire, despite the enveloping darkness. He begins to smile when his eyes meet mine. He swipes his tongue between his lips slowly, tugging on his bottom one only slightly before parting them and pulling them into a smile awfully close to resembling a smirk. He's standing in front of me, comfortably and nonchalantly slouched, as if he's completely at ease with the current circumstance. I hate him for it. Because I've lost the ability to speak, to think, to fucking breathe. All because of him.

"Ryan," he repeats, as if it's the only word he knows.

My stomach flips, my chest is tight. "Brendon," I clear my throat, "why are you here?"

He chuckles and looks down, shaking his head so that small strands of hair fall carelessly into his face. He's looking up at me again, and he's still smiling. "I needed to show you something."

I say nothing because I'm speechless. I'm watching him, and he knows I'm watching him, but he doesn't care. He's staring right back at me, like this is something completely normal to him. His eyes wander mine imploringly, and I wonder if he's analyzing me, as well. I wonder.

"Can I come in?"

I should slam the door in his face, crawl back into bed, forget this night completely. But I won't. I don't. I open the door for him without hesitance, and before I know it, he is standing in the middle of my kitchen, filling up every empty hallway with his presence, mirroring the fire, warming my cheeks. I shut the door, and thus the world, from us.

Though he's still standing in the middle of my kitchen, looking around curiously at my furniture (or lack thereof) and me, I shift my eyes from his nervously and take a seat at my table. After a moment, he does so, too. There is barely any light between us, but there's enough for me to still see his face. We're sitting in silence, but I'm stealing glances up at him when I can. His cheekbones glow under the light of the moon (or maybe the moon glows under the light of him), so that he looks perfectly sculpted. I can't help it, but I am thinking of how I would write him in a poem. I'm sure any other artist would say his features were made of marble, sharp, flawless, made to be admired on Earth's mantel for all the world to see--but that is not how I would describe him. His face is much too soft, too caring, too warm to be characterized by such cold stone.

I would say he was molded of clay, by a man whose flowers always died. The man could never make daises bloom yellow and white, bright like the neighboring field across the way. And though the man's touch was careful, his flowers always died, leaving nothing but gray mud in their place. Brendon was sculpted from the mud of a flowering grave. He was built in anguish and malice and anger and love. The man built him with the same carefulness with which he tended his flowers. He crafted Brendon's eyelashes when tears stained his own. He built his cheekbones sharp with the thought of failure still fresh in his mind. The man built Brendon out of everything he felt and everything he loved and everything he wanted; he was made to mirror perfection because the man had never before attained it. And once complete, the finished clay was then put in a kiln, stained to resemble marble, put on display for no one to see. Brendon was supposed to look like divinity, but he was never made out of stars. Instead, he was laced with all that made the man feel and all that made the man human: love and imperfection. 

Brendon tilts his head towards me, and I am gazing into his eyes. There are rose petals in his irises.

I break eye contact. "Brendon," I sigh, "why are you here?"

"I already told you."

I rub my eyes. I can't tell if my brain is still foggy with sleep, or if it's just  _him._ I chuckle, shaking my head instead. "How do you even know where I live?"

He leans closer to me, resting his elbows on the table as he crosses his hands in front of him. "Oh, don't think I'm stalking you," he smiles. "I saw you earlier. At sunset. I was taking an evening stroll and I saw you walking--rather quickly--home. At first I thought you were in some kind of danger, because you looked seemingly distressed by something, which is why I followed you in the first place." He looks me up and down slowly, shamelessly. "But obviously," he pauses, "that wasn't the case."

I lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest, rolling my eyes. "How noble of you." My heart speeds up when I hear how near he was to me the entire time. 

He smirks proudly. "I thought you'd think so."

I know he's still watching me, but I let the silence hang between us for a moment before I say anything again. Really, I'm just hoping that the darkness hides how pink I fear my cheeks are. Finally, I say, "Show me."

 He reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a folded white slip of paper. He stands up, extending it out toward me, and I accept it from him hesitantly, rising and stepping closer.

"Read it." He says.

Confused, I look up at him. "Why?" I ask.

"Because," he begins, "I want you to know that I wrote it about you." 

My chest feels tight, constricting, I can barely breathe. "What do you mean you wrote it about me?" I manage breathily. "You write?"

He nods, but says nothing. He's staring down at his hands now, playing with his thumbs. It's an odd sight to see in place of his usual self-assured confidence. All I can do is watch him, holding the slip of paper between us, unopened. Its weight in my fist reminds me of what it felt like to hold his jacket in my hand only the night before: a comfortable burden.

Brendon steps closer. "Read it," he whispers.

My hands are shaking now and I don't know why. I unfold it, smoothing it out in the process, though the paper is still damaged with crinkles, as if it has been crumpled up and thrown out more than once before. It is only half a page, but it reads:

 

_Forget me, like waves crashing against a shore_

_endless, unparalleled, unknown--_

_though, unbeknownst to me,_

_intrusive, complete, and undeniable._

_Forgive me, for begging of a hand that wasn't mine_

_belonging to a body I ~~did~~ do not know,_

_nor Remember_

_nor would like to forget._

_I ask that you reach with arms of a humble pine tree_

_because I want your needles_

_to pierce me._

_I want to see what the world Sees._

_being Numb is so boring._

 

I read it three times, four times, five times, six, and I still have absolutely no idea what it means. 

 "Brendon, I--"

He cuts me off, holding up a finger. I only now realize how close we are. I can feel how warm his body is next to mine as its heat envelops me in waves. His eyes are closed, his lips are parted. I'm staring at his eyelashes, at his cheekbones, at his lips, his lips, lips, lips. 

"Ryan." His voice is so soft, and he's still not looking at me. He's so close I can feel his breath upon my skin. He says my name as if it's the only word he knows, and my skin is freckled in goosebumps. There is no room to breathe between us, I feel as if I am just stealing his air, but really, he's probably stealing mine. Because I feel as if I will never breathe properly again. Even stranger, I realize I'm okay with it. I'm so dizzy on him, dizzy on his breath permeated with alcohol and mint chocolate.

 _This is not okay. This is not okay._ My mind is screaming. I take a step back.

Then, abruptly, Brendon is brushing past me, pushing through the front door, disappearing without any trace that he was there at all. 

I am standing alone in the middle of my kitchen, holding a white slip of paper, alone, alone, alone. It is the only proof I have that he was there. My skin feels on fire and I am burning again. More than just a muse, I think.

Suddenly, I am panicking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if you thought Brendon's poem was stupid or shit or whatever. It's 2AM and it's not my best work, I'll admit. but it fits for what I need for now. who knows, I might just end up changing it eventually?
> 
> leave thoughts!!!!


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